"You see that was how Richard came to take an interest in us--in Hester and me--how he came to be the friend too of Ralph and Edith. Poor Ralph!--Ralph was often hard to me, but he meant kindly--he would never have got through at all but for Richard. If Richard was away for a week, he used to fret. That was eighteen years ago--and I too should never have had any peace--any comfort in life again--but for Richard. He found somebody to live with me abroad for those first years, and then, when I came back to Upcote, he made Ralph and Edith consent to my living in that little house by myself--with my chaperon. He would have preferred--indeed he urged it--that I should go on living abroad. But there was Hester!--and I knew by that time that none of them had the least bit of love for her!--she was a burden to them all. I couldn't leave her to them--I _couldn't!_... Oh! they were terrible, those years!" And again she caught Catharine's hands and held them tight. "You see, I was so young--not much over twenty--and nobody suspected anything. Nobody in the world knew anything--except Judith Sabin, who was in America, and _she_ never knew who Hester's father was--and my own people--and Richard! Richard taught me how to bear it--oh! not in words--for he never preached to me--but by his life. I couldn't have lived at all--but for him. And now you see--you see--how I am paying him back!" And again, as the rush of emotion came upon her, she threw herself into a wild pleading, as though the gray-haired woman beside her were thwarting and opposing her. "How can I let my story--my wretched story--ruin his life--and all his work? I can't--I can't! I came to you because you won't look at it as Edith does. You'll think of what's right--right to others. Last night I thought one must die of--misery. I suppose people would call it shame. It seemed to me I heard what they were all saying in the village--how they were gloating over it--after all these years. It seemed to strip one of all self-respect--all decency. And to-day I don't care about that! I care only that Richard shouldn't suffer because of what he did for me--and because of me. Oh! do help me, do advise me! Your look--your manner--have often made me want to come and tell you"--her voice was broken now with stifled sobs--"like a child--a child. Dear Mrs. Elsmere!--what ought I to do?" And she raised imploring eyes to the face beside her, so finely worn with living and with human service. "You must think first of Hester," said Catharine, with gentle steadiness, putting her arm round the bent shoulders. "I am sure the Rector would tell you that. She is your first--your sacredest duty." Alice Puttenham shivered as though something in Catharine's tender voice reproached her. "Oh, I know--my poor Hester! My life has set hers all wrong. Wouldn't it have been better to face it all from the beginning--to tell the truth--wouldn't it?" She asked it piteously.